


All That I Want Is Here

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to 3B.  Stiles recovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That I Want Is Here

**Author's Note:**

> with grateful thanks to dogeared for beta!

The nightmares don’t end when the nogitsune's defeated. Stiles is so used to fighting sleep – the deadened, sickly, dream-like state the nogitsune engineered – that it's days before he can trust that he'll wake up if he so much as dozes. Scott stays with him in the hospital, lets Stiles fall asleep clutching his hand, a talisman against the darkness, a promise that Scott will pull him back, and he's there when Stiles flails awake, screaming, begging for reassurance that the things around him are real.

They all offer to take their turn – Allison, Isaac, Lydia, the twins – but Stiles shies away from Lydia, apologetically afraid she'll scream the news of his death again, and he doesn't trust Isaac or the twins, and he knows Allison has no particular power to keep away demons. The only person besides Scott he'll accept is Derek – Derek who can see demons; Derek who'll fight to claw him back like he did the first time. He doesn't hold Derek's hand, but he curls up toward him, watches him read until he finally tires.

The new MRI shows his brain is no longer sick. Stiles doesn't react to the news until the doctor leaves the room, until his father bends to hug him tightly. There's a hollow space inside him, carved out by fear and exhaustion, and he feels like he could cry long and hard enough to fill it and still not be done. He feels fragile, startling at loud noises, sick with worry – more than once he rips the IV line from the back of his hand, opens up his stitches from nothing more than dreams.

When he's released the world seems impossibly bright, everything sharp and new, colors vivid in ways he'd forgotten. His room – thank god – feels familiar again, stripped of the newspaper clippings and photographs, post-it notes and vibrant red strings with which he'd mapped out his fears. The bed is new, as are the sheets, and he's absurdly thankful for the clean slate. Scott says he can't stay the night, but he'll wait until Stiles is asleep before he heads home. Stiles thinks it might be enough. But he wakes on the knife-edge of memory, and he's shaking apart, and he isn't screaming, but only because the nogitsune has stolen his voice.

"Shhhh," says Derek, who's sitting beside the bed, and Stiles flinches and scuttles back against the wall, panting with fear.

Derek gets up from the desk chair he's been sitting in and crouches beside the bed, making himself smaller than Stiles. He extends a hand across the sheets, palm up, and Stiles can see Derek's pulse beating steadily at his wrist. "What are you doing here?" Stiles asks, voice ragged.

"Making sure you're okay," says Derek.

"Oh." Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away tears and sweat. He guesses that once he worried about his dignity. He doesn't anymore.

"It was a dream," says Derek. "Whatever it was, you were dreaming." His hand is still open on the sheets.

"It kept asking me a riddle," Stiles says, voice unsteady. "I couldn't figure it out, for the longest time, I couldn't figure it out, and it told me it was the only way I could protect you all from . . . from being . . . "

"It's gone," says Derek. "It's gone and it's not coming back."

Stiles reaches out to grab his hand, then, folds his fingers around Derek's and squeezes hard. "You'll stay?"

"For as long as you need me," says Derek.

Stiles can't imagine a time he'll ever sleep uninterrupted, can't imagine the nightmares will ever stop. "Could be a long time," he says, uncomfortably.

"So it's a long time," Derek says.

Stiles closes his eyes, sitting up, holding on as if Derek's some kind of anchor. He's so tired. He's just so godawful tired.

*****

Scott's the best friend a guy could ask for, always at his shoulder, never crowding. The first day they have Chemistry he shows up at Stiles' locker, smiles at him like it's any other day, walks elbow to elbow with him into the lab, sits beside him. Lydia's in front of them, and she turns around and smiles, and Stiles can almost manage a halting smile back. It's fine until the sub picks up the chalk and begins writing out formulas – the scritch of the letters has Stiles' heart quicken, his breathing pick up its pace. Scott sets one hand on his shoulder while he writes in his notebook, and Stiles swallows hard, holds his breath, concentrates on Scott's touch until the urge to bolt from the room has passed. He flexes his fingers – stretches them wide then balls them into fists – and tears a corner from the page of his notebook. He writes, "Do you hear anything?" and folds the paper in four, hisses at Lydia and fumbles the note to her when she turns around. "No," she mouths at him when she reads the question. "Nothing, I promise." He nods, and lets out a breath.

His dad seems undisturbed by the fact that he's waking Stiles and Derek both in the morning, Derek slumped uneasily in a chair, Stiles at the closest edge of the bed to where Derek sits. 

Allison slides a chocolate pudding cup across to Stiles at lunch one day, and it's the first time in a long while that Stiles can remember feeling not just grateful but happy. He spends part of the afternoon in the boys' locker room, hiding from everyone and everything, needing the quiet and the cool and the stillness to calm his mind, but even that doesn't dim the feeling of his heart opening up just a crack; he sits on the floor with his back against a locker, and his head is pounding, but he thinks he remembers how to hope.

"What do you read?" he asks Derek that night, his eyelids heavy as he watches Derek flip to his place. 

Derek looks at him placidly. "Catullus," he says. "Last week a really bad novel in French – I understood maybe half. Terry Pratchett. A book about woodworking."

Stiles nods. "You're not bored?"

Derek shakes his head. "No."

Stiles sighs and scooches back across the bed, leaving a wide-open space between him and Derek. "You could sleep if you wanted to," he says around a yawn, and his eyes close on the look of surprise on Derek's face.  
He wakes up in the night because he has to take a leak, and it's peculiar to ease out of sleep rather than rocketing to wakefulness on the wings of fright. Derek's laid out beside him, covered by a blanket he's pulled from the bottom of the bed, and Stiles feels his heart squeeze once before the more prosaic business of pissing claims his attention, and he scrambles across the bed and to the door.

He comes back to find Derek awake, sitting up, one bare foot poking out from beneath his blanket. 

"You okay?" Derek asks.

"Had to use the bathroom," says Stiles, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. He climbs back up the bed, wriggles back beneath the duvet. 

Derek watches him suspiciously for a moment, then lies back down, too. "Had me worried," he mumbles sleepily.

Stiles reaches for his hand.

*****

Sports are hard – they force Stiles out of his head and back into his body, the physicality discomfiting, his heart flying, his breath coming quick. Running feels hellishly close to panic. He pulls up short one afternoon, lets the rest of the cross-country team pound past him, and with one hand braced against a tree he throws up his lunch, his anger, his wishing. It isn't long before Scott comes loping back, his pace picking up speed when he sees Stiles stumbling away from his own vomit.

"You okay?" he asks, running a hand over Stiles' back, pressing the other to Stiles' forehead. "You're warm."

"I'm fine," Stiles says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "I just – " Scott waits for him to find the words. "It feels like being trapped again."

"This?" Scott asks. "The run?"

"My heart, my breathing, everything, I can hear his voice again, the riddles – "

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Scott curls a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, a gentle pressure. "I understand."

And he does, that’s the thing, and Stiles can do nothing but sit down in the dirt, too overwhelmed to stand.

Scott sits down beside him. "You want to talk about it?"

Stiles rubs his nose against his forearm, ready to say no, but the word doesn't come. "I fought him," he says.

"I know."

"He'd show up sometimes as me, and I'd know that was who you all saw, and I'd – "

"We knew."

"But not right away. I fought him and he looked like me. Do you realize what that means? I punched myself; I hit myself. I _hated_ myself."

"Stiles . . . "

"And my heart would clatter in my chest and I'd think, this is it, I'm going to have a heart attack, or my breath would seize, and I'd think, this is it, he's going to smother me until I choke, and I'd – "

"Hey," Scott says gently, nudging him with his elbow. There's a long pause, then, "I'm sorry, buddy."

Stiles nods, drops his head, stares at the dust and pebbles between his feet. Scott doesn't tell him the nogitsune isn't there anymore, doesn't tell him it'll get better, doesn't suggest he look on the bright side. He just sits, arm pressed against Stiles' arm, until they hear coach yelling their names.

"We'll tell him you twisted your ankle," Scott says, standing, reaching down to pull Stiles up with him. "Can you limp?

Stiles nods. "I can limp." He throws an arm over Scott's shoulders. "Just hold me up."

Scott smiles at him. "Course," he says.

Stiles brings home an extra copy of the novel they're reading in English class, gives it to Derek that night. "I thought we could talk about it," he says. "If I wake up."

Derek nods. "Good idea."

Stiles slides into bed, curls up on his side as Derek sits down and unlaces his shoes, pulls off his socks. Derek kicks up his feet when he's done, leans back against the wall and flips to the first page of the book. "If this sucks – " he says.

"It'll probably suck," says Stiles.

He wakes up that night in Derek's arms, Derek holding him back from hurting himself as he screams. Stiles slumps when he realizes where he is, what he's doing, but though he struggles for control he can't help but whimper, embarrassed, hurting. Derek doesn't let him go, but rocks him, murmuring words of reassurance, comfort, and Stiles leans back into the solidity of his body.

"It had my dad," he whispers. "It had him, too."

"Didn't happen," Derek says softly. "He's fine. You're both fine."

"This is fine?" Stiles asks weakly, but he doesn't protest further, just leans his cheek against Derek's arm and closes his eyes in defeat. 

Come morning, he's still tangled up with Derek, who's leaning against the wall, Stiles tucked against his side. The duvet's pulled up high around them both, and Stiles notices the blue-black smudges beneath Derek's eyes. He wonders when Derek sleeps, if he has trouble back at the loft, winding down in the silence, and he feels almost guilty, but not quite. It's Saturday, and the house is quiet, and Stiles is pretty sure he's falling for Derek. A dog barks down the street, and Stiles listens, transfixed by how ordinary the day seems.

*****

He heads to the mall with Allison in the afternoon, wanting new shirts, new pants, things that the nogitsune never touched.

"Why didn't you ask Lydia to come?" asks Allison, holding up a dark blue henley.

He shakes his head at the shirt. "I just . . . " He looks down at the jeans bunched in his hands. "I'm afraid of her," he says at last.

Allison rounds the display table between them, frowning. "Afraid?"

"I don't feel free of it. Everyone tells me it's done but I don't feel like it is." He swallows and tries a smile, but it fails. "I'm afraid she'll figure it out, that she'll scream and I'll know I'm still dying."

"Oh, Stiles." Allison presses her lips together, concern writ large across her face, then she steps forward and envelops him in a hug. "You're not dying," she says fiercely. "We wouldn't let you. No one would let you."

It should feel weird, to be hugging in the middle of menswear, but Stiles holds on. If someone thinks he's crazy for having a moment amid t-shirts and khakis, well, it's better than a lot of things they could think. Better than a lot of things he's done.

"You're buying the henley," says Allison, stepping back, dashing a hand over her cheek. "You look good in blue."

"Okay." He nods and clenches his jaw, releases it. He has the best friends. "And the green?"

"Yeah, the green, and the white with the grey at the collar."

"Okay." He rubs absently just below his ribs where everything aches. "Okay, I'm buying shirts." And Allison slips her hand into his, and one more thing mends.

Four days pass, and he has dinner with his dad – pizza on one side of the plate, salad on the other, portions equally matched – and they talk about a couple of public nuisance cases, the book report he has due on Friday, his last math score. His dad is the worst at sneaking searching glances. Stiles colors under the attention, sets down his fork.

"It's getting better," he says, and he sounds almost defiant, even to his own ears.

"Uh huh."

"I feel more . . . more rooted," Stiles says, and he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, unsettled by his dad's gaze.

"Derek helping?"

"Yeah. A lot."

"I hear you when you wake up." A pause. "I hear you every time."

"I can tell Derek he shouldn't come by anymore."

"That's not what I'm saying." The sheriff studies him openly. "You have good friends. I'm glad they can help you."

Stiles moves his fork around with one finger.

"Though we should think about seeing the doc again if those dreams don't quit." 

"I don't need a doctor."

"You might."

"Everything's healing and – "

"Just to be sure."

Stiles looks at a point just over his dad's shoulder, his guts twisting, the conversation rubbing raw against the worries he's hoarding. "Can I ask you something?" 

"Of course," his dad says. 

Stiles looks down at his hands, resting on the table. His thumb twitches, then stills. "Mom had the same thing I had. Before we – " He waves the whole issue of the demon away. "Do you wonder if she . . . if it wasn't just . . . " His eyes prickle. "If she died screaming, the way I – "

"No," says his dad, reaching over the table to snag Stiles' hand, long fingers closing around his wrist. "No, Stiles, no. Don't go thinking that."

"I just – "

"You were with her," says his dad, and Stiles can see tears in his eyes. Some things are never going to heal. "You told me. Tell me again."

Stiles presses his lips together, swallows hard. "She smiled at me. Told me she loved me." He blinks and a tear falls, despite his effort to steel himself against the memory. 

"Son, even if some demon was . . . and I don't believe it was, she was there at the end. Those were her words. She knew you."

Stiles nods. "Okay."

"I know your mom." He grimaces. "She died with her son holding her hand, knowing she was loved. Don't you ever forget that. Don't forget how much you meant to her."

"I don't. I don't, dad, I promise, I just dream sometimes and – "

"God," his dad whispers and he pushes back his chair, rounds the table and pulls Stiles up into a hug. "It's okay, you hear me? You're okay. She loved you. She loved you a lot."

Stiles presses his face into his father's shoulder and nods.

"And I love you, too." His dad's voice is unsteady. "More than anything."

"More than pizza?" Stiles asks, voice thin.

His dad huffs a breath of reluctant laughter. "More than pizza."

"Enough to eat your salad?"

His dad pulls back and cups his face in one hand. "This one time."

*****

Stiles sleeps through the night for three nights straight, thinks perhaps he's winning something at last. Then the night before his chem. test he wakes up standing in the front yard, Derek calling his name, his feet bare and cold. 

"You were sleepwalking," Derek says, reaching out to curl his hand around Stiles' wrist. He tugs gently. "Come back inside." 

"Sleepwalking?" Stiles repeats.

"Unless you had plans out here you haven't shared with the group, yeah," says Derek. 

Stiles closes his eyes, listens hard to the sound of cars along the distant highway, the scrabble of some live thing ducking beneath the bushes across the street. He can feel Derek's skin warm against his own, feel the whisper of his pajama pants against his leg. "I'm never getting better," he says softly.

"You are. Three nights," Derek says, stepping closer. He drops Stiles' hand. "You sleep longer every time."

"I think," Stiles says, wrapping his arms around himself, "I might actually be broken. Really. Not just for kicks."

"You're not broken," Derek says quietly.

"No?"

"You went through something terrifying. You were alone. That's hard to come back from."

Stiles pulls in a shuddering breath as he realizes Derek's speaking from experience. "Oh, god, I’m sorry – "

"Shut up."

"No, but I just – "

"I mean it, shut _up._ "

Stiles closes his mouth, rubs his hands up and down his own arms.

"Come inside," Derek says.

Stiles says nothing, but he steps forward and presses a kiss to Derek's lips. Derek freezes, then pulls away, and Stiles is about to step back and blame everything on insanity when Derek leans in and kisses him back. "Oh," Stiles manages as Derek puts enough distance between them for Stiles to see his face.

"Not like this," Derek says. "Not at night, not because you're frightened."

"That's not why – "

"Not thinking you're broken and I can fix you," Derek says, and Stiles feels a flush creep up from his chest. "In the daylight, if you're sure? Then yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

Stiles blinks and waits for more words to come, his mouth working uselessly. "You'd want to."

Derek frowns, as if Stiles is the most perplexing thing he's ever seen. "I want to."

Stiles feels exhaustion roll over him, and he shivers hard. "This night is ridiculous," he says fervently, and he's startled when Derek laughs. 

"Come inside," Derek says again, smiling. He offers Stiles his hand.

Stiles takes it. 

*****

The days get easier, Stiles' anxiety dimming to a faint tremor beneath his skin. He jumps too easily – at the flash of someone's white t-shirt in his peripheral vision, at the sound of metal on metal as someone closes their locker door – but he's come to count on Scott beside him, holding him steady with a touch, a smile, a joke about his test scores. He drops out of cross-country, spends two hours after school one night learning just how bad he is at drawing under Lydia's watchful eye, and he thinks about getting a job.

He spends more time with Derek.

They move slowly, discovering what it is to talk until it's night outside the loft, how bad Derek is at video games, where they can eat without someone pointing at the Sheriff's weirdo kid. They tangle fingers; they make out sprawled on Derek's couch, and they quickly learn how much Stiles can handle before he freaks out.

"I'm sorry," he says, hand out-stretched to stop Derek moving after him, backing up against the couch's worn arm. "I just – "

Derek watches him, but there's no judgment on his face.

"It's just – I _want_ you, and . . . "

"It's okay."

Goddamn his equanimity. Fuck. "Let me explain." He grits his teeth, pulls at the neck of his t-shirt, which feels too tight. "I can't . . . can't give up control, not even a little. Not even for this."

Derek's expression clears. "Stiles."

"Do _not_ pity me."

"I don't."

Stiles swallows, feeling churlish. "Good."

"It has to be . . . "

"Terrifying," Stiles finishes for him. "The last time I lost control I . . . " His throat tightens and he blows out a breath. "It used me. Made me helpless. I can't."

Derek reaches out a hand, waits for Stiles to reach back. "We'll go slow," he says. 

"If you need to – I'll understand if . . . "

"Shut up."

"Okay." 

Stiles falls asleep in Derek's bed, Derek close beside him, and wakes up with his head pillowed on Derek's arm.

He goes to see a shrink at his father's asking, but he can't tell the truth, has to dress up 'possession' as 'a personal crisis,' and the therapist's advice is useless in the face of a supernatural world she doesn't know exists. Stiles would rather talk to Scott anyway, haltingly surrender his ghosts to his best friend, watch his fears wither bit by bit beneath Scott's ready understanding. They study together, make up a filthy rhyming scheme to remember the first ten presidents, quiz each other on the periodic table, and pretend the symbols for potassium, iodine, and radium don't exist. Scott's mom buys them giant bags of Cheetos; Stiles' dad pretends they're not playing Mario Kart when they have a math test the next day.

Stiles kisses Derek, and kisses him, and kisses him, and it frustrates him to no end when fear hauls him back by the scruff of his neck, shakes him and leaves him muddled and angry. Derek's patient, but Stiles doubts it can last. No matter how often Derek jerks off in the shower, there's no getting around the fact that Stiles is one giant cocktease.

Derek sighs, visibly agitated. "You are not."

"Please. It's been weeks."

"Who do you think I am exactly, that I'd blame you for – "

"So you're bringing up blame?"

"Jesus, Stiles, no! Would you stop putting words in my mouth?"

Stiles picks up his sweatshirt from the coffee table, pulls it back on in jerky motions. "I think I should leave."

"Fine."

"Fine." He stuffs his books back in his backpack, jerks the zipper and curses when it sticks. "Just my fucking luck."

Derek glares at him from five feet away.

Stiles frees the zipper, swings his bag over his shoulder. "Don't come by tonight."

"If you say so."

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking, crosses the loft with long, purposeful strides. "I'll call you."

"Fine." And Stiles rolls the loft door open, steps through and shuts it again, blocking out the hurt on Derek's face.

He doesn't sleep. His anxiety spikes the moment he turns out the light, so he flips on the lamp, runs his hands through his hair. He tries to read, but the words won't coalesce, and he remembers how the letters once ran down the page, and he can't make his breath come regularly like it should. A shower doesn't help; watching TV doesn't help; walking a circuit of the back yard over and over doesn't help. By morning he's spent, so fatigued he falls asleep in a dining room chair, propped up awkwardly in front of a half-eaten sandwich. He makes it through the day by the skin of his teeth, comes home after English and traipses to his room, finds Derek there reading, and a pile of clean laundry folded neatly, stacked on top of his dresser.

"You folded my clothes?" Derek looks up at him, one eyebrow raised, and Stiles sighs. "I'm sorry."

"You were a jerk."

"I know."

"You don't get a free pass just because – "

"I _know_."

Derek blows out a breath and pushes back from the desk he's been sitting at. "You need to sleep," he says, pushing Stiles' backpack off his shoulder, leading him to the bed and gently shoving him to sit down. "I'll be right here."

Stiles sleeps and he dreams of the moment he woke up from the fog of possession, and he wakes, and watches Derek read.

*****

Kira's awesome – funny and bright and inquisitive, and she makes Scott deliriously happy. Stiles has never seen anyone fall in love the way Scott falls in love, smitten and glad of it, plunging in with no thought of the risk. Kira seems happy, too, bubbling over with earnest discovery as she learns about her power, about the world in which they live, revealed to her bit by bit. Despite her invitation, Stiles never goes over to her house. He isn't sure of his welcome with her mother, isn't sure what seeing her will do to his state of mind.

Stiles tries not to watch when they make out in front of him; they're too glad to hold things in check until they're alone. They kiss and touch and laugh with one another, and Stiles can't remember the last time he laughed with Derek. There's always so much humming in the air between them, and none of it ever resolves.

"You okay, buddy?" asks Scott, waving a donut in front of his face.

"What? Yeah," Stiles scoffs, giving him a smile as he takes the donut out of his hand and bites down. It's barely 7am, and they're due at school in half an hour.

Kira doctors her coffee with another packet of sugar. "Do you think we'll get quizzed about federalism?" she asks. 

Scott's expression settles into something like shock. "We were supposed to review federalism?"

"I gotta get out of here," says Stiles, and he fishes a five out of his pocket, throws it on the table. "I'll catch up."

"You okay?" Scott asks.

"Couldn't be better," he lies, and flashes him a thumbs up.

He drives to Derek's, takes the stairs two at a time and lets himself in. Derek's standing by the television, one eye on the news, drinking coffee in a t-shirt and jeans. Stiles feels the snap-to of Derek's attention like it's a physical thing. "What's wrong?" Derek asks, setting his cup down.

"I want you," Stiles says, "and this waiting is bullshit."

Derek blinks and crosses his arms across his chest. "What?"

Stiles drops his bag. "I said I want you, and this waiting is bullshit." He shrugs out of his jacket, drops it on the steps. "I can't go on being terrified forever." He wets his lips nervously. "I want to sleep with you."

Derek watches him warily. "Stiles."

" _Derek_."

"You shouldn't have to screw up your courage to do this. It shouldn't be . . . "

"I shouldn't have had a demon inside my body for _weeks_ ," Stiles says, crossing the loft toward him. "I shouldn't have had to fight my way back out. You shouldn't have had to coach me to do it. I've got a whole world of 'shouldn't' and I don't want one bit of it."

"I . . . "

"Help me," he says, coming to stand an arm's distance away from Derek. "I want this."

Derek's arms drop, his gaze shifting between Stiles' eyes and his mouth. "You're sure?"

"I am beyond sure. I'm waving at you from the other side of sure."

Derek closes the distance between them. "I just . . ." The corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. "If you're sure."

"Jesus, Derek, what did I . . ." 

This kiss isn't like the others they've shared – it's hotter, sweeter, far more intense. Stiles fumbles a hold on Derek's arms, moaning softly when Derek takes his face between his hands and deepens the kiss. "Better?" Derek asks, nosing Stiles' cheek.

Stiles takes a moment to gather his wits. "Better," he says, nodding. "Do that again."

They kiss as Derek walks them back toward his bed, as his hands slide beneath Stiles' shirt and rest gently against his skin, sending little electric shocks through Stiles' body. "This okay?" Derek whispers, ducking his head to nip beneath Stiles' jaw. Stiles shivers against him.

"Okay," he says, and he's shaking a little now, right up against the boundary he hasn't dared cross. He's nervous, waiting for the panic to hit, waiting to feel socked by dread, but Derek's mouth is gentle on his, and his hands move slowly, peeling Stiles' shirt away from his body. Stiles flushes as Derek kisses his shoulder, the bump of his collarbone, as his fingers explore the curve of Stiles' spine.

"You, too," Stiles says, pushing ineffectually at Derek's shirt, and then Derek's pulling it up over his head, and Stiles' breath catches at the sight of him, broad and solid, utterly beautiful. He tangles his fingers in Derek's hair, leans in and instigates a kiss, shivers, satisfied, when Derek groans at the touch of his tongue. Derek's fingers drag along the waistband of Stiles' jeans, and Stiles never knew the small of his back could be such an erogenous zone. He kisses Derek again, and again, and it's a long, quiet while before Derek pulls back so that he can see Stiles' face. 

"I'm good." Stiles swallows awkwardly. "Are you going to ask me the whole time?"

Derek smiles at him. "Yes." 

Stiles curses softly, leans in to kiss him again. He feels Derek's fingers at the button of his fly, at his zipper, and then Derek's easing him out of his jeans, pushing him gently to sit on the bed as he pulls one pant leg over a foot, then the other. He kneels between Stiles' legs, kisses Stiles' kneecap, and Stiles lets out a soft, stunned noise that has Derek looking up.

"I'm fine," says Stiles in a rush, shaking his head to clear the fog of arousal. "I'm better than – I'm . . . "

Derek kneels up to kiss him softly, hands at either side of his hips. "Slow," he whispers, and kisses Stiles' jaw, noses at his ear, sucks his earlobe between his teeth. 

Stiles jolts, then shudders, feeling hot and restless. He's losing control, but it isn't like he thought it would be – it isn't terrifying, he doesn't feel isolated, it's all his choice. "You're making me crazy," he offers, sliding his hands down Derek's arm.

"Good," Derek says with a smile, kissing him again, lush and wet and lazy. "Look at you." He bends his head and kisses right above Stiles' heart.

Stiles drags his nails lightly over Derek's back, feels him shudder, watches his eyes fall closed. "So good," he murmurs, as Derek pushes his hands against the grain of the hair on Stiles' thighs. " _Derek_." He's hard and leaking inside his shorts, and he wants more contact, better friction, _something_.

But Derek hums at the back of his throat and stands up in front of him, shimmies out of his jeans. He's hard – there's a wet spot on his shorts at the tip of his erection – and Stiles feels his breath come quickly at the sight of it, but panic is the last thing he feels. It's a revelation, to feel his body wind tighter and tighter, and to feel nothing but pleasure as it does.

"Move back," Derek coaxes, and Stiles looks behind him, inches backwards, reorients himself to the head of the bed. Derek climbs up beside him, swings a leg over Stiles' shin, leans down to kiss the jut of Stiles' hipbone. Stiles bucks, but Derek's too quick, leans back with a smile on his face, lets his fingers drift across Stiles' stomach, circle his navel, and glance over the front of Stiles' shorts. Stiles gulps in air as Derek kisses Stiles' knee again, then he's tugging at Stiles' shorts, slowly, evenly working them down his legs. With those gone he kisses Stiles' calf, then the inside of his thigh, mouths at the sensitive skin at the crease of his torso, then reaches for his hand. "You with me?" he asks, pressing a kiss to Stiles' palm. The gesture's unbearably tender.

Stiles nods, yes, and he arches when Derek takes him in his hand, swears when Derek takes him in his mouth. His world reduces to the slick, wet heat of Derek's touch, to the rhythm of Derek's tongue against the underside of his cock. Stiles' thinking has slowed, his brain offline as his body strains, and when he lifts his head to watch Derek suck, it's overwhelming, the gut-punch of want in his stomach. He stretches out a hand, touches Derek's face, feels the hollow of his cheek, the stretch of his lips around Stiles' cock, and he groans helplessly, head thumping back against the pillows. Eyes closed, everything's more intense, and he can feel a hot, desperate pleasure building at the base of his spine. His hands are restless – he touches his stomach, his hip, covers Derek's hand where it's pinning him to the mattress, and when Derek tangles their fingers together, he freezes, then comes with a shout.

Derek gentles him through it, sucking until Stiles bats at him, twists his hips, too sensitive for more. He leans to press a kiss on Stiles' stomach, works his way back up Stiles' chest, mole by mole, leans in and kisses him on the lips. Stiles moans softly at the taste of himself on Derek's tongue. "Good?" Derek asks, pushing a hand through Stiles' hair. 

"Mmmm," Stiles nods, sated and buzzing with contentment. "You – you now."

Derek wriggles out of his underwear, kicks them aside, presses himself hot and ready against Stiles' side. "Your hand," he whispers. "Just your hand."

Stiles licks his palm and slides his hand between them, wraps his fingers around Derek's length. He's shockingly warm to the touch, and Stiles watches Derek's face as he bites his bottom lip, closes his eyes as he rocks into Stiles' hand, chest heaving. "Close, close," he mumbles, pressing his face against Stiles' neck, as if to hide how thoroughly undone he's becoming, and Stiles twists his wrist, hand slick with pre-come, tugs Derek right over the edge. It's beautiful, to watch him come apart, the uncoordinated jerk and shake of his body as he spends himself across Stiles' hip.

They lie together, breathless and sticky, and Derek stirs first, kisses the hollow of Stiles' throat. "Mmmmm," he murmurs, and pulls back to kiss Stiles on the lips. Stiles winds himself around him, kisses him fervently, doesn't care about the mess between them, just wants Derek close. Derek pets him into a stupor with little touches, a caress to his elbow, a touch to his hip, and only then pulls away to stretch for the Kleenex in a box by the bed. He mops them both up, throws the tissues away, then touches Stiles' face, looks Stiles in the eye. "You feel okay?"

Stiles smiles at him, a slow, satisfied grin. "I feel . . . " How to sum it up? "Like I could sleep," he says at last, and Derek's answering smile is bright and fond.

"Yeah," Derek says, and maneuvers them both beneath the covers, opens his arms and lets Stiles press in close.

*****

An omega comes through town – unassuming, not planning to stay, but the pack stays on his tail regardless. It's a whole new adventure to go out in the woods after dark, to face down shadows that could contain monsters Stiles never imagined until he was possessed. Scott's out ahead with Derek, scenting out their path, and it's Kira who drops back, who slips her hand in his and says, "Pretty unsettling, huh?" as if she's the one who feels on edge and needs him to calm her down. He offers a tight smile, but he squeezes her hand, lets her drag him around the coyote den where he tried to die, chatting all the while about school and her grandmother and the new song she just downloaded that he really ought to hear. When they're sure the omega's gone and agree to head to the nearby diner, Stiles gets into his jeep, drops his keys from his shaking hand, fumbles for them and swears as his fingers graze them once, twice, before he can pick them up.

"You okay?" Derek asks, arms folded on the rolled down passenger side window.

Stiles feels _fine_ hovering at the back of his throat but he swallows it whole. "First time back out," he says, tightening his jaw.

Derek nods. "I know."

Stiles slides his car keys into the ignition. "I need fries like you would not believe."

"I'd believe it," Derek says with a smile and steps back, patting the roof of the jeep before turning to walk back to his own car.

It's almost 4am by the time they leave the diner, 4.15 before Stiles can pull himself away from Derek's mouth and mumble something about going home.

Derek watches him, and he looks strangely pleased, which makes no sense to Stiles at all. "You need me to come over?"

And Stiles thinks about it, lets the idea roll around inside his head, says, "No." He surprises himself. "I think . . . no."

Derek nods, and smiles his understanding, leaves Stiles standing in the half-light thrown from the diner windows. Stiles watches him go, realizes, for the first time in forever, that he isn't scared.

It's Sunday. He goes home and sleeps until after noon, wakes and blinks blearily at the ragged poster on the far wall of his bedroom. Relief prickles at the back of his neck, washes down through his body, leaves him trembling. 

He thinks in a rush of Scott, of a friendship more meaningful than blood, of Allison, and Lydia, and Kira, who've kept him buoyed. He thinks of his father, and the gift of words that still cost so much; he thinks of his mom and her parting smile.

He reaches for his phone, scrolls down to find Derek's number.

 _I made it through the night_ , he texts.

 _Never doubted you would_ , Derek texts back. _Come over later_.

Stiles smiles and sets the phone aside. It's the afternoon, and his room is chilled, and he can feel every inch of his body, the scope of his mind, the limitless capacity of his heart.


End file.
